Campfire Favor
by Wordgawk
Summary: To assist or not? Alistair requests help from Solona.


**Author's note: C'mon, there's gotta be some jolly in camp. Who needs gloom during rest when lumpy baked beans or an animal carcass for dinner is enough horror for these travelers?**

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Campfire Favor

"No, Alistair, I mean it." She was going to be firm.

"But... it's such a nuisance." The pitying slope of guilt in the complaint was ignored.

"Tough."

Here they were in camp, Solona, Alistair, Morrigan and Zevran. Tents were sprung up and nightfall came. Like how the traveling staples of bruises and aches followed fights, so did arguments. Morrigan wisely opted to leave herself out of the yammering between Solona and Alistair and tend to her part of the camp. Solona wished she could join Morrigan but the mage would probably just shoo her away, especially if Alistair were hanging behind.

The unique spin about this heated debate between Solona and Alistair was the plea of desperation from one workaholic Alistair. He had made rounds to the others with his request, all politely as could be, and each person shot him down. Morrigan barely opened her mouth to reply when Alistair turned right back around. He needn't have bothered asking her, of all people.

His last hope lay with Solona.

Curse these Chantry men for not being taught decent mending skills for clothing. How could those cloistered magisters not understand that templars fighting equaled gaping patches of space in undershirts?

"I'm not very good at sewing, myself." Solona had been resolved for the first four minutes of their rather one-sided discussion. It was true she was no seamstress. Fixing broken hems took all her willpower, if not strength. Sewing, while useful, didn't click with her learned cognitive mind.

Unfortunately, Alistair did a pretty stellar job at wearing her down with his surprisingly calm state and limitless reasons why she was best for this arduous task: Her slim and trim fingers moved faster, she had patience with cloth.

He was inventive, she had to give him credit.

Alistair grinned cheekily. "Liar. I know you are."

"If I am?"

Alistair looked right at her. His face began to grow pink. "I'll do you a favor."

"Like?"

"You're- a woman." The statement stumbled and landed smoothly.

"I have the parts." Solona patted her rounded chest openly, causing him to burn further.

Alistair smiled in a brazen way. "I can do something you can't."

Solona eyed him craftily. Where was this conversation going to tonight? "Do tell."

"Show instead." Before Solona could question, Alistair tugged loose the laces holding the front of his shirt closed. With the neck drooping loose, he swung the shirt over his head.

Solona began laughing. "What is this?"

Alistair's face, even in the flickering firelight of the bonfire, darkened. He half-laughed, but spoke clearly. "I'm giving you the gift of seeing me shirtless."

Solona's peals grew incessant. He was such a fighter. "So why is this so exclusive?"

Alistair simply blinked, as if she couldn't see the truth laid out in front of her. "Women don't normally go shirtless in public. At least, the women in Ferelden. Perhaps some of the wilder Orlesians tucked away in the remote corners of the west practice this sort of display."

The bunched shirt was sneakily being pushed into her lap as he pretended to be thoughtful with his distracting muse. By the time Solona realized the entire heap had been lumped into her arms, she gave up and sighed.

Oh, he went this far. It only seemed fair he got some reward for his troubles. "Fine. Just this once."

Famous final words; their group of savvy Grey Wardens weren't exactly bursting as the seams in quantity. She was designated patcher until someone with better stitching skills came along. Yes, Solona would continue to fix garments and fling magic around, Alistair would polish his armor to prevent rusting and hack demon heads off, and Zevran would grip his daggers and keep tabs on anyone outside their group who wanted to stick similarly sharp objects into them. And naturally, Morrigan chose to use literal fire power to roast enemies. All these activities must go on in the name of survival.

"Yeees!" Alistair pumped a triumphant fist in the air. His winning grin was a nice change from all the frowns their party came across from villagers and priests and soldiers.

Zevran took this instance of victory to stroll by them. He too dressed casually in a thin shirt and pants that didn't fare better than Alistair's ragged garment. His curious brow raised at the half naked Alistair sitting in front of the female Warden. To the assassin, Alistair seemed doubly too excited to not have his enthusiasm be fused by anything else other than womanly attentions.

"You are all right, Alistair?" Zevran wiggled a teasing pointer finger between them. "Nothing enticing is happening here that I shouldn't run away to my tent to escape, yes?"

Alistair nodded excitedly. "My shirt is getting fixed! My efforts pay off. All I had to do was take it off."

Eyes lighting up faster than a pyre, Zevran rubbed his palms together salaciously. "Alistair, you genius. You reminded me that I have a damaged garment, also. There is an unsightly hole at the side of these pants, at the very bottom." He bowed to Solona. "If you would, my lovely." Zevran made as if to reach for the waist of his pants.

"Maker, don't you dare!" Solona and Alistair roared in horrified unison.

-- THE END --


End file.
